


Love is a game for the weak to play, they said (I loved and love made me many times stronger)

by dragon_rider



Series: can't face the dark without you [2]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Mild Gore, Mirror Universe, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 22:46:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_rider/pseuds/dragon_rider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The greatest mistakes come from denial and Leonard McCoy will not slip and consider James Kirk as a simple tool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love is a game for the weak to play, they said (I loved and love made me many times stronger)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Surfaced](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Surfaced/gifts).



> Companion piece to [I am with you forever, the end.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/498700)

Gurgling sounds and short, uneven pants are the only things filling the air of the room.

McCoy grins, satisfaction tugging at the corners of his lips. He twists the scalpel just one millimeter deeper and is rewarded with a full-body spasm.

He takes off his gloves, the loud smack of the latex worsening the tremors of the body in front of him.

He laughs, deep voice vibrating low in his chest and steps back from the wrecked Ensign he’s got strapped, saving the results of his last test on the computer terminal.

He’s pleased, there’s no point in denying it. After much work and research, he finally has in his hands the compound he needs for interrogation of V.I.P’s who, if managed incorrectly, could literally be the end of his career since he’s still not high enough in the food chain to be immune to power play.

He’s getting there, of course, but long years of calculating and moving in the shadows still await him. He needs to be patient but he can almost taste it—the victory, if distant and not his yet, as real as it will ever get.

He calls for Jim’s yeoman to clean the mess after changing a thing here and another there to make it look like the standard torture procedure. She comes immediately and without sparing a glance to the broken crewman, starts tiding everything as she’s been ordered.

There was a time where she hurt with sympathy as she did her duty. That was until McCoy taught her how glad she had to be the chair was occupied by someone else showing her exactly how to be in that place felt like.

Now, she won’t even look at him or Jim in the eyes anymore and that—the unconditional, almost paralyzing fear—is the best guarantee of loyalty McCoy knows.

Well. Almost the best, but the other kind he knows it’s not exactly extrapolated to anyone but one man—the man currently leaning on the doorframe with a wicked curl on his lips and a proud twinkle on his sky blue eyes.

James T. Kirk.

McCoy keeps entering parameters in the computer, waiting for the yeoman to leave, which she does with her head bowed and virtually pressing her body to the other end of the door so as not to brush not even a tad of the Captain.

Once they’re alone except for the limp form of the Ensign, McCoy beckons him close with the barest of tilts of the head and grips him by waist and hip as he plunders his pink, plush mouth. Jim is unsurprised and simply accommodates to him, his body’s response instantaneous as it clicks with his own in all the right places, firm hands clutching his arms before tugging at the short hairs on his nape.

McCoy doesn’t groan in approval, but it’s a near thing.

A lesser man would pretend this isn’t something he needs, would act as if this were just something he enjoys because it’s convenient and _rational_ because what kind of fool would reject such a pretty, bright thing as Jim when it offers itself completely to him?

McCoy has no such weakness. He’s aware of every level in which Jim Kirk affects him and he embraces it, not as a distraction or as a mean to an end but as the very thing that propels him forward when his own ambition doesn’t cut it.

Jim is that indispensable to him, has been for a long time now. This is a fact McCoy strategically hides and will probably keep hiding for the rest of his life. Every preparation he has can’t ever be enough to control a wild being such as the Captain of the Empire’s flagship, after all. It’s better if Jim doesn’t feel safe in his position by his side. It’s a way of ensuring he will fight to keep it, of ensuring McCoy will get nothing from him but the best he’s got.

“You did it, Bones,” Jim breathes on his lips, pride and awe plain in his hushed, husky voice, “Didn’t you?”  
McCoy breaks apart just enough to raise a smug eyebrow at him, drinking in every single of Jim’s praises to his actions, both spoken and unspoken. “What do you think?”  
Jim chuckles, initiates another smoldering kiss before licking his way to his ear. “Good job, Doctor,” he says, teasing and so promising it sends a sharp spike of anticipation through McCoy’s spine, “A commendation is definitely—“ Jim pauses, worrying his earlobe, “on its way.”

This time McCoy does groan. He shoves Jim against the wall and hooks one lean leg around his hips so he can thrust right into him as they kiss.

He knows they’re both holding back so they don’t bite or start something they can’t finish, but for a moment he gives himself the luxury of keeping Jim in place by clasping his buttock because that—the luxury of having him right where he wants—it’s _his_.

“Why, thank you, Captain,” he punctuates with a final push, letting Jim go and enjoying how he lingers there open-mouthed and winded, “I will accept it. Humbly.”

Jim snorts, grinning at him through long lashes. He goes back to the bridge and McCoy sits in his office, certain that Jim will follow his tacit command and lure the Commodore of the nearest Starbase right into his clutches.

At night, as Jim sleeps soundly on his stomach, he basks in the exquisite picture he makes; naked except for the thin sheet that’s slowly slipping from his body. He’s all masculine, faultless shapes in the semidarkness of his quarters and McCoy doesn’t stop himself from stroking the strong lines of his shoulder blades right where the muscle is thickest.

Jim sighs, arching a little into his touch. An almost unintelligible murmur leaves his lips and there are few things more appealing to him than the fact he recognizes McCoy even dead to the world, uttering that absurd nickname with no trace of doubt.

This is so much more than an alluring show. This is more than just sex, more than submission. This is unadulterated trust and he cherishes it not only because it comes from a powerful, clever man, a man strong enough to lie beneath him and not be crushed under his weight but because it comes from Jim—the man he loves.

No, there isn’t only sinister pleasure swelling in his chest as he takes him. He’s not afraid of admitting it, even though the only place he can do it is the safety of his own mind.

Denial would make him fragile, vulnerable. Passion, on the other hand—if handled properly—can make him thrive and so he welcomes it, treating the source and reason for it with quiet reverence every chance he can afford to be soft.

This will have to do, for he will never be able to say the words.

This is their only comfort, their twisted happily-ever-after.

This is as much as they are ever going to get.


End file.
